Thirty-Seven
by Mischief Not Yet Managed
Summary: This is the life of Fred: dealing with good and evil, moments forgotten and remembered, lessons and revelations about life. This is the life of George: handling troubles and treasures, times important and everyday, depths and understandings of the world. These are the lives of the infamous, pranking, Weasley twins, unplugged, unedited, how they are and were, forever and nevermore.


_A/N:_

_This was originally intended as a one-shot, but I think I might go into the full length of their lives. Consider this a type of Prologue or last Chapter posted in the beginning. I'll do this several times throughout the story, putting in a chapter of the future of past; I'll label these as Intermissions. Well, wish me luck. Hope you like it, although I do suggest reading a few chapters before forming opinions as I like to use the reverse funnel effect when writing the beginning of a story, as I think most people do. __FRED IS NOT DEAD; IN MY EYES AND THE EYES OF THIS FANDOM HE CAN NEVER DIE. _  


* * *

**Thirty-Seven**

**Intermission One: A Separate Peace**

**Fredrick Gideon Weasley **

* * *

If there is one thing I remember about my youngest years, it's the war. And George. And mum. But mostly that part of my life, my earliest memories, was dominated by the oppression of the rise of the Dark Arts and it's heinous supporters.

I was hiding under a creaky wooden staircase, in a cupboard, shut up there with my three older brothers and twin; we didn't exactly fit. I was two years old that day in early April, that dark ominous night. Barely two, as my birthday had been four days prior. Imagine that for a moment, being merely a couple of years old, being thrown hastily into a tight, unlit space with four other people, none of whom were my mother. She was panic-stricken the last time I'd seen her, frantically stuffing us all in and trying to sound reassuring with the words that meant nothing to my young mind. I hadn't seen Dad since we left the Burrow, hurried along to the Floo, and arrived covered in soot at our old Aunt Muriel's house. In short: I was terrified.

I recall Bill, about ten at the time, with his back pressed against the door seated on the ground with his knees up to his chest and George sound asleep (how he managed I still don't know) curled into his side. Percy was huddled by Charlie's feet across from them, crying, Charlie crouching down behind, trying to quiet him. I could assume his eyes flickered around every minute or so, as it was a nervous habit of his. I had my hands up over my ears and I could barely tolerate to open my eyes for I knew there was darkness either way; I felt my brothers rather than saw them.

Later I would learn that was the day of my mum's brothers' deaths. Fabian and Gideon. Murdered in an attack on the Prewitt family. Mum and Dad had immediately put in place the plan they'd set up awhile ago to get us all to safety, and then Dad had responded to their distress call by apparating over. He was restrained to the hospital for the next several weeks from severe burns, Mum a little ways away in the mental health department, being treated with therapy as she had had the unfortunate horror of arriving at the Prewitt house just as the Avadas were cast on her twin brothers.

At the time, of course, I had no understanding of what these events had done to my family. Now, though less experienced them some, I assume, I think I know better than most the meaning of life and death.

* * *

I suppose the war ended, or most folks thought it did at least. Me? Well, I was three maybe four years old when I realized there was to be no more running and crying and hiding and praying for a while, though the day it officially ended was no more special than the one before it in my eyes. Child's eyes are so much easier to look through.

So, I grew up, if you could call it that. Sometimes I think I was born grown-up. I was the older twin, yes, the ringleader if you will, but George had always been the more compassionate and responsible, the voice of reason when need be. So what do I mean by that then, if not that I was literally older? Well, the crushing weight of the world didn't rest on my shoulders either, and I was only a leader because I chose to be. I never pondered for long the repercussions of any action I took. But maybe what I'm trying to convey here is I wasn't, by any means, a normal child; I was, and always had been, a war baby.

My parents had never meant to have me, and not my twin either, nor Percy nor Charlie nor Bill. They had never meant to fall in love with each other or get married or buy a house together. Dad had never meant to become the head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts department in the Ministry. They had never meant to finish their education at Hogwarts, and certainly not to officially graduate. They had never meant to make so many amazing friends and be so happy and content. What they had intended, however, was to fully live up to the title of a Gryffindor. They had intended to join the Order of the Phoenix. They had intended to risk their lives to save others. They had intended to fight dark wizards and witches, Death Eaters, and Voldemort himself. They had _expected_ to die trying. I was a war baby, this I had always known.

But they hadn't met their end yet. They held onto life not for themselves, but for us once we were all born, starting with Bill; they wouldn't allow us to lose our parents and for that I was grateful. They also held on, of course, to continue the war effort. But it didn't seem to change much really; it did but it didn't _seem_ to. They would have survived anyway; they were too tough really.

I think a lot of the witches and wizards born during that time (particularly people form Charlie's to Percy's age) somewhat idolized their parents as children because they were young enough to be capable of that non-deluded admiration but old enough to really remember what occurred during the long years of Voldemort's tyranny, to comprehend that most of their parents were, essentially, not only survivors but heroes. I understand this but I never supported the feeling.

Don't think me unappreciative; it's only that I know that they never wanted to be heroes, or martyrs even. They did what they did because they felt compelled to, like it was their duty, their personal responsibility. They didn't do it with the intent of receiving fame and praise and awe. Everyone could see that well enough, but I'm not sure they actually grasped it, the concept of war and bravery and loss and the impact it can have not only on individuals but the world and future at large.

Somehow, I always thought I was born an adult, though I may come across as immature at times. And I guess that's really just because I always knew how I would die.

* * *

The years passed in no more than a happy daze. The world, it seemed, had forgotten the significance of its mistakes.

I could rattle off the names of all the Ministers of Magic from the beginning of the second millennium on going backwards, forwards, or in alphabetical order. I could climb the tallest tree by our Burrow in no more than 12.4 seconds. I could always tell what those around me were thinking by their facial expressions and body language and could complete any of George's sentences flawlessly without the slightest hesitation. All this, in a meaningless, happy daze.

I was an inventor, my father had first said to Mum when I was five years old and had constructed a catapult of sorts that would fling tiny snappers at Percy the second he entered the living room. Mum had just shook her head ruefully and muttered about how I should use my powers for good rather than to antagonize my brother. Bill, George, and baby Ginny had found it hysterical.

I did not intend to antagonize anyone specifically, even if there were pranks or jokes made at their expense. I only wanted to bring humor to a world I would forever see as a small, dark cupboard in my Aunt Muriel's rickety, smelly house. Whether anyone saw any of it as personal I did not deem of enough importance to worry me within the boundaries of my outlook on the grand scheme of things.

* * *

There was a heat wave the summer after I turned eight years old. I remember George pushing me into the lake. This was both refreshing and hilarious until I remembered I didn't know how to swim; I'd never had the occasion to learn. Come to think of it, neither did George; we'd never dared test Mum's resolve that we stay away from the lake before. I guess we knew why she banned it now: it got real deep real fast.

I could see that dawning in his eyes of the realization of what he'd just done; George started panicking. I remember being perfectly calm however, instructing him to toss me one end of a branch or stick while he gripped the other and hulled me out. I suppose I was so laid back about the whole experience because I intuitively knew I wouldn't drown; that was not the way I'd die.

We snuck in the back door, my usually verbose twin silent as he helped me dry off and tossed me some fresh clothes from our drawers. We had a mutual understanding without actually conveying it to each other verbally that we would not tell anyone of this, and also that we would teach ourselves how to swim properly. We would teach ourselves everything, whether we knew it subconsciously then or not.

So we went back the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that, and so on and so forth until we got it. And we did learn eventually; I picked it up quicker than he did.

The experience, for George, did not dim so much in his memory but rather served as a bit of a reminder; I think this is what ended up making him the more cautious of the two of us. For me, it faded completely, waned until it was nothing more than a shadow of a few weeks in an otherwise almost completely ordinary summer. It had faded completely, so I thought, until now, when, for the first time since it's happening, I recalled it. Why? A mirage of my finest moments I suppose, as my body now shuts down.

* * *

There is not a single day of the year I appreciate more than my and George's birthday, April Fool's Day. Uncle Gideon had once tried to convince me (from his portrait that is) that he had invented the day and I should be thankful that he did, otherwise neither I nor George would have been born. I think I half-believed him for a real long while, until George told me no: Uncle Fabian had invented April Fool's Day. Percy proclaimed us both wrong, then proceeded to stuff his nose back inside the thick pages of his textbook. For all his reading and knowledge, we had never considered Percy to be a credible source, so we disregarded his opinion of the matter. Mum said we may as well have been both right for all our Uncles had utilized the day and done to shape it into to what it meant for Hogwarts and our family now.

Unfortunately, after my tenth birthday, the first of April sort of lost most of its magic. Bill had announced he was moving to Egypt for his work with Gringotts that day; that was also the day I made the revelation that the war was never on going nor over; the war was everyday life, I thought, as I watched my oldest brother apparate away, and nothing stays the same, ever.

For all the years after I worked twice as hard alongside George, the one person I knew would always stay the same to me, to bring its appeal back not only for other people now, but for me as well, or us I should say, as he felt everything that I ever did.

But I never once actually lost my appreciation for April Fool's Day per say, though its origins remained unclear. It was too on my tenth birthday that I understood its purpose best and appreciated it all the more.

* * *

I never could seem to organize my thoughts or memories properly, which is probably why I only remember my childhood in snapshots, as if the scenes of a past life, when this one is coming to an end.

Most wizards and witches found the idea of past lives and future lives and people being connected through eternity plausible. Sometimes I amuse myself with wondering who I was, and who everyone else was in relation to me. Did I have the same experiences to make me who I am? Er, "was" rather? Had I been important, made a difference in some way? What had I done with that life or those lives and how did I finally end up dying?

I occasionally relate this to my earlier years, as I sometimes feel, well, not exactly that I'm not looking through my own eyes on my own life, but that maybe they're a different shape, color, or prescription. George says I'm just scatterbrained, though I'm not convinced. However, I did not find it very reasonable to miss what you never knew, so I suppose he might have the slightest point there.

So maybe then, as well, I should stop trying to pretend I know my future, because I don't. Just right now, this very moment, and, of course, the very end.

* * *

Now, as the world explodes around me with the force of a _reducto, _I think with an odd, unsettled feeling as if life had come full circle. I saw the wall crash down on top of me. I could hear the screams, the shouts, the spells, the cries, and the cruel laughter of our enemies. I felt my soul drifting away from my body.

I was born into a world at war. And I suppose the only proper way for me to meet my death would be in the same surroundings. But even so, I'd never imagined this as the way I'd die. And so, it couldn't be possible that I would. In this moment, the impossible very end, I imagined myself immortal, invincible. I was, by the very definition of the word: _infinite_.

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_A/N:_

_Like I said before, this is a type of Prologue or last Chapter posted in the beginning. Please read a few chapters before judging and leave your thoughts in a review. Alright, night guys; sorry for not updating my other stories but this idea wouldn't leave me alone: I decided it was time to start writing in the HP archive instead of just reading it.  
_

_-L_


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